


Restraint

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Control, F/M, Light Bondage, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:12:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want to touch you.”</p><p>“I’m afraid not. Not with your hands, at least.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restraint

“Have you thought about it?” Petyr asks, his voice low, his lips brushing her ear. He’s standing just behind her, a few inches shy of being pressed against her back, but with one hand griping her waist, thumb moving in lazy circles. It’s not an entirely innocent gesture, though Sansa hopes it appears that way. 

Just moments before all the Lords of the Vale had been in this room, giving her council in how she is to proceed in light of all the misfortunes that had befallen her—her widowhood, the harsh winter, the pressing war. She had sat during the meeting with a placid face, absorbing all, bestowing her own opinions and smiles in even measures so as not to show too much favor to one specific party. Petyr had watched her intently the whole time; she knew this even if she only met his eyes once. 

Sansa didn’t need to look at him more than that in order to tell he was pleased with her. She was pleased with herself. 

Now, she looks at him in the mirror set above the mantle, and he meets her gaze. She knows he tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice, but it’s all there in his face. Sometimes she wonders how he survived for so long, he’s far too emotional. 

“I have,” she answers, and the slight smile that touches her lips is genuine, she knows. He had first brought up the idea to her some days ago, and she had mulled over it ever since. There was a lot of risk involved, but something about the idea lingered in her mind and she couldn’t get it out. 

Petyr smiles, truly smiles, and tightens his grip just a bit. 

\---

“Have you done this before?”

It’s the first words either of them had spoken since he entered her room. She marvels, sometimes, at how little they need to talk, at how easy it is to fall into these patterns. Again and again she tells herself that it’s a weakness, but lately she’s less certain which of them is really the weak one. 

Petyr’s lips are at her neck and she shivers a bit when his stubble scraps against her skin as he rises to speak to her. His eyes are clear and wicked and Sansa finds she can’t help herself in pressing up against the length of his body, enjoying the friction, the feel of him between her legs. 

“I have, sweetling.” Petyr kisses her, the lightest brushing of the lips, and pulls back completely. His hands ghost down her sides, gathering the thin material of her shift and pulling it above her head with one solid movement. Sansa takes in the look on his face as he examines her—the hard nipples, the wet lips at the juncture of her slightly parted legs—noting that, like always, he seems more than a bit in awe. A useful reaction, certainly. 

Petyr runs one appraising hand up her body, cupping a breast and taking her chin in hand to draw her into a long kiss. She sighs into it, an uncalculated reaction. She never quite stops playing the game _(if I stop I shall die)_ but there are moments like this when she knows that what she feels is real. She’s still a woman, after all. 

Still, real or not, she would be fooling herself if she did not admit that there was an unmistakable rush of power that she feels whenever she sees him look at her in that way. 

Perhaps her pleasure in those moments is why she allows this.

Petyr grips ones of her wrists and pins it above her head, pressing his body deeper against her as he does so. She can feel the weight of his cock against her core and wraps one leg around his back to try and get closer. He’s still partially clothed, his loose shirt and half-undone breeches leaving a sense of impropriety to the act that coils in her stomach. 

He kisses her sweetly and pulls her other hand up. The cords are waiting for her—soft, silken things; she really wouldn’t expect anything less from him—and he ties them expertly, secure but not so tight that it’s painful. 

Petyr kisses her again, touching her tongue briefly with his own, then settles back to admire his work. 

His eyes are a bit clouded and he seems more undone by the act than usual. She pulls at the bindings slightly, for show, and he groans deep in his chest, his hand running back down her body to settle between her thighs. 

“What are you going to do to me?” she asks, trying to keep her voice innocent. His fingers graze her outer lips, just slightly, brush against her clit just enough to make her toes curl.

He has a half smile on his lips. “My sweet Sansa.” His voice is stronger than it has been in a good long while. Not that he’s weak—she would never make the mistake of thinking that—but the tides in their relationship had shifted in some fundamental way since the power he promised her had arrived. She can’t say she doesn’t enjoy this newfound feeling of control, after years of having none. And even now, when she knows his intent, she feels power beyond anything she could have imagined in King’s Landing. 

Petyr brushes against her clit once more and she whimpers, pushing against him with her leg, trying to coax him further on. He obliges, sliding just the tip of one finger inside her, causing her to arch her back and pull at her bindings more. 

She had never known that these acts could be so wrapped up in these elements of restraint—but then again, everything is just a game to him. One evening he chose to correct her manners by having her bend over his desk. There had been pain in the slaps, but it had been accompanied by an undercurrent she was unaware could exist. She suspects it has something to do with this sense of give and take, with watching him feel like he has the power and control, for once. In the early years she might have been blind enough to think he really did, before she realized that was as false as any persona he put on. She could destroy him whenever she felt fit. 

But seceding some of that unspoken power, seeing that glint in his eyes, was worth it in moments like that. It only served to add to the pleasure. 

He slides a second finger inside her, but not nearly deep enough, and she bites her lip and watches him with pleading eyes. 

Petyr raise an eyebrow, clearly enjoying every second of this. “What is it you want, sweetling?”

His thumb was making light circles against her clit, his fingers were curled within her, and she struggled a bit with her words. “You.”

“How?” he asks, but he’s already spreading her legs further, pulling at his laces. He’ll leave the shirt on, as he always does when he wishes to not appear weak in her eyes.

“I want to touch you.”

Petyr presses his hands against her lower back, rising her up and off the mattress, allowing her to wrap her legs around him fully. “I’m afraid not. Not with your hands, at least.”

H enters her slowly, watching her intently as he slides into her inch by inch. She doesn’t break his gaze, knows how much he likes it, enjoys the naked awe in his eyes. Fully sheathed he presses against her body, pushes them down into the mattress, covers her with kisses and caresses, savors her every little whimper and pull against her bindings. He fucks her slowly, whispers promises and oaths against her skin that she’s almost convinced he will keep. After all, she knows that the next meeting they attend will consist of him admiring her—his creation, he sometimes liked to say, but she cannot help but think that’s too simplistic. If he was so certain of his power, he wouldn’t have this need to claim her.

_I could kill him in his sleep. I could make him die for me._

Perhaps some day. Tonight she is content to enjoy the deep stretch, the ache he will leave between her legs, the naked way he stares at her, the strange pleasure in submission. 

In the morning she’ll have burns from the silk on her wrists, marks that must be hidden in order to maintain her innocent façade. She’ll flash them at Petyr every once and a while, a reminder, a promise. Alone, she’ll trace them with her fingers, then slide a hands between her legs.


End file.
